Recently divorced Lilly Echosby finds a community of new friends at a Tennessee dog club, never guessing she’d be groomed to solve a murder close to home . . .   Sure, Lilly Echosby’s husband dumped her after thirty years of marriage, but there’s an upside, too. She’s recharging her CPA career, trading brutal Michigan winters for the sunny south, and best of all, she can finally get a puppy. Enrolling her new toy poodle, Agatha Christie, at the Eastern Tennessee Dog Club also comes with a new best friend: club trainer and southern belle, Scarlet “Dixie” Jefferson. Unfortunately, not everything in Lilly’s life is quite so cuddly. Her neighbor, Bradley Hurston, is a cantankerous, growling, poodle-hating blowhard. For Lilly, snapping back at him in public wasn’t exactly the best revenge. The next day Bradley is murdered in the community pool and Lilly becomes number one suspect. Now the fur is really going to fly . . .   On the scent to find the real culprit, Lilly and Dixie discover that Bradley’s bad-neighbor policy was blocks long. So is the list of suspects. But is aggressive behavior a motive to kill? Lilly and Dixie think there’s more to Bradley’s past. Something more sinister. And they have every reason to fear that Bradley won’t be the last in the community to be put down. V. M. Burns was born and raised in South Bend, Indiana. She currently resides in Tennessee with her two poodles, Coco and Kenzie. Valerie is a member of Mystery Writers of America and a lifetime member of Sisters in Crime. Readers can visit her website at www.vmburns.com. In the Dog House By V.M. Burns KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. Copyright © 2018 V.M. Burns All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-5161-0790-2 CHAPTER 1 "YOU TWO-TIMING LOW LIFE WEASEL!" I'd always prided myself on being in control and maintaining my dignity, but I was on the verge of not only humiliating myself, but committing physical violence. "Mom, calm down." Stephanie placed her arm around me and helped me back into my seat. I glared at my soon-to-be ex-husband, thankful there was a large conference table in between us. He refused to make eye contact, looking everywhere but directly at me. The twenty-year-old home-wrecking hussy sitting next to him looked bored. The bleached-blond, heavily made-up twig was actually filing her fingernails. I was shocked he'd had the nerve to bring the floozy he was leaving me for to the meeting with our lawyers to discuss divorce proceedings and the distribution of assets. Less than five minutes ago I was on the verge of tears. My marriage of twenty-five years was ending. That was until Albert walked in with his lawyer and his super-slim girlfriend, who happened to be younger than our children. I shouldn't have been surprised. Even though he'd said he still loved me, I knew there was someone else. Wives always knew. When he started working out, dyeing his hair, and spending lots of late nights at his car lot, I should have known. He said he needed something new. Turned out the "something new" was a twenty-year-old dancer who was younger than both of our children. Little Miss Home-Wrecker stopped filing her nails and smacking her gum long enough to yawn, and that set me off again. "Are we boring you?" She looked at me with a snide curl to her lip and a shrug of her shoulders, and before I knew what came over me, I was halfway across the table with my hands wrapped around her throat. It took three people to pry my hands off her scrawny little neck. "You're crazy," she croaked. "I am crazy, you little bimbo." She backed up to the door. "I'll be in the 'Vette." She marched toward the door. "And the name is Bambi." She turned and left. The white-hot rage that propelled me across the table subsided, and I allowed myself to be placed in my seat. Albert stood in place, torn between his current wife, who was all but frothing at the mouth, and his girlfriend, who'd just walked out. He made his choice when he turned and walked out. His attorney followed not long afterward, leaving Stephanie and me alone in the conference room. We sat in silence for what felt like a long time but was only minutes. Then I hopped up from the upholstered wingback chair and paced in front of the large plate-glass window that looked out over the city of Chicago onto Lake Shore Drive. I was so angry I wanted to swear, but I'd never said the kind of words I saw spray-painted on the sides of buildings or scratched onto the walls in public restrooms. I was raised to believe well-bred ladies didn't use those types of words. I trained my children that the English language was so rich, a well-educated person should be able to express themselves without resorting to those types of words. Today, I learned I was wrong. Well-bred ladies did use those types of words. In fact, I felt like stringing all of them together and saying them loud and repeatedly. Nevertheless, close to fifty years of training and Catholic school guilt didn't dissolve in an instant.